


Arrival

by momentia



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: M/M, Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-18
Updated: 2014-06-18
Packaged: 2019-10-18 02:26:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17572562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/momentia/pseuds/momentia





	Arrival

Doc knows even before he ties that final suture that it’s going to be more positive thinking and energy healing than medical know-how that saves Donut.

Either way, Doc is responsible.

He drags an extra cot into the room and sleeps fifteen feet away from his patient, listening to his raspy breathing and watching the shallow rise and fall of his chest, willing to him to live, to wake up, to heal, heal, heal.

*

By some miracle, Donut does live, he wakes up, he heals.  But he’s quieter than he used to be, from what Doc remembers, and Doc feels flashes of anger at Agent Washington not for what he did to Doc himself, but for so callously intending to end Donut’s life and for, failing that, dimming what was once one of the brightest auras Doc had ever seen.

Doc is taking out all this aggression on some stubbornly compacted soil outside the base, because anger is inevitable but should always be turned to constructive, non-destructive ends, and he decides that Donut could benefit from this, too.  Not from this kind of hard work, exactly, but from the sunshine, the fresh air, the warm ground under his feet.

He helps Donut walk from the room they’re still sharing out to the future garden, and Donut hisses in pain, hand pressed to his side, but he never stops taking those careful little steps, and Doc never stops murmuring encouraging phrases into the air between them.

The Valhalla sun does seem to brighten everything about Donut—his spirits, his aura, his hair.

*

Spring turns to summer, and Donut has a fresh spray of freckles across his cheeks and a tan on his arms and can walk without help.  He’s mostly healed, as far as Doc and his equipment can tell, except for a mass of fresh scar tissue that Donut stares at the small mirror set in the base bathroom.

Doc doesn’t mean to walk in on him, but his hands are a mess from weeding and he isn’t thinking when he pushes the door open.  Donut drops his shirt and shrugs.  “Looks bad, doesn’t it?” he finally asks Doc’s reflection.  “Not going to be winning any more swimsuit competitions, that’s for sure.”

“You’re alive,” Doc says, ignoring all the rest.  He’s spent less time with Donut than most of the others, yet he’s usually less fazed by him.  Something in Donut’s vibrancy never sat well with the rest of Red Team, but Doc sees a kindred spirit in Donut, even past the pain and the haze of sickness that surrounded him until so recently.  “You’re alive and you’re still beautiful and scars just mean you’ve survived.”

Donut turns to face him, the real him, and the expression on his face is unreadable, a rarity for Donut.

Then Donut says, “I guess you’re right,” and grins, and Doc grins back and washes up for dinner.

*

Doc is well-acquainted with nightmares.  He doesn’t talk about it, because the past is the past and it only clouds the future, but the memories he rises above during the day sometimes get the upper hand at night.

It hasn’t been so bad, lately, apart from that one recurring dream—a memory, really—of finding Donut and his armor unlocking and the blood, all the blood, and rushing to check Donut’s blood type and tourniqueting his own arm for a transfusion, and it was all such a blur at the time, but the details are crisp when he’s asleep.

He wakes from his nightmare to register that Donut is having his own across the room, whimpers and muttered sounds that aren’t quite words, and Doc isn’t sure whether to wake him, just crouches helplessly beside his bed and puts one hand on Donut’s arm.

Donut starts awake, just blinks a few times before he says, “Hey, Doc.”

“Hey,” Doc whispers back.  “You were having a nightmare.”

“Yeah.”  Donut glances down at Doc’s hand on his arm and asks, “Will you sleep here with me tonight?  Just sleep, I promise I wont—”

He falters, and Doc wonders whether Donut’s as oblivious to his teammates’ discomfort as they choose to believe.

“Yeah, of course,” Doc says, without any real hesitation, “move over.”

He settles into the narrow bed, Donut’s back to his chest, rests one palm carefully over his scar.

“What are you doing?” Donut whispers.

“Directing divine healing energy,” Doc whispers back.

“Oh,” Donut says, as if that makes sense, so trusting and clear, and he’s asleep within moments.  Doc listens to Donut breathe and says a silent prayer of thanks.  He drifts off just after, and sleeps until morning.

*

They sleep together a lot after that, often enough that they push the beds together in the center of the room and make a nest out of all the pillows and blankets they find around base.  Doc dries lavender from the garden and Donut stitches scraps of cloth together, and they make pillowcase sachets to help them sleep.

Doc wakes with a nightmare again, and Donut is right there to push his hair back from his forehead and say, “You’re okay,” and Doc returns the favor the next week, Donut’s sun-bleached hair like silk under his fingers.

Donut washes their sheets once a week and hangs them out to dry while Doc shells peas under the shade by the door.  They make the bed together, laughing, Donut insisting on neat corners that will be disrupted come bedtime.

Doc has never had such a nice home, such a lush garden, such a perfect friendship.

*

The sun shines bright and the strawberries hang heavy in the garden, and they’re eating as many as they’re throwing into the basket but they won’t keep forever and life is good and strawberries taste delicious cold, of course, but they taste even better warm from the sun.

And it’s such a silly moment, something straight from one of Donut’s favorite romcoms he’s made Doc watch over the past few months, but they reach for the same plump red berry and their hands brush, and Donut looks up at Doc and his mouth forms a perfect o, and he actually says it aloud, “Oh,” before pulling his hand back and turning around.

It unsettles something in Doc, or at least lets him feel something that has maybe not been settled for a while now, and at dinner that night he watches Donut push lettuce around his plate, and Doc says, “Penny for your thoughts?”

An antiquated turn of phrase, pennies were last exchanged as common currency four centuries ago, but it’s something Doc’s grandmother used to say, and Donut must know it because he blushes and says, “Out in the garden today, I wanted to kiss you,” and he looks embarrassed and miserable and maybe a little scared.

A dozen thoughts hit Doc at once, _what about the doctor-patient relationship_ and _what about best friends for life_ and _he’s so great_ and _honesty is important_ , and finally Doc says, “You can, you know.”

Nothing happens for a day or two, but they’re out among all that green they’ve brought to life with their own hands when Donut catches the back of Doc’s t-shirt and kisses him, tentative lips slick with gloss.  Donut’s hair is warm from the sun when Doc reaches to cup the back of his head, and Donut laughs nervously against Doc’s mouth when they finally part.

“I guess this is the end of our sleepovers,” Donut says.

“Why?” Doc asks him, and the happiness that blooms on Donut’s face is prettier than any of their flowers.

*

Doc kisses the top of Donut’s head as Donut settles in to sleep, and Donut whispers, “Thank you, you’re the first person who’s been nice to me since I enlisted.”  Something in Doc’s chest goes tight, because he understands that, understands the kind of loneliness that settles in.  Understands knowing he has inherent value as a living being, but how different that is from knowing he matters _to_ someone, knowing he has another person who thinks he has value, too.

*

Fall comes, and they preserve what they can, including turning the meager crop from the grape vine into wine.

It amounts to just over a glass each, not enough to get either of them even tispy, really, but apparently enough to lower some inhibitions, because Doc ends up with a lapful of Donut, and he finds himself putting his hands on Donut’s hips, his thighs, his butt, and Donut just keeps kissing him, whispering his name between each kiss.

That’s all the further it goes, two men with a glass of wine each and all their clothes on making out like teenagers.  But Doc still feels guilty in the morning, and he says over oatmeal, “I want you to know I’m sorry, I was so _aggressive_ last night, it was very unlike me.”

Donut makes a face as if his breakfast has gone sour.  “I wasn’t planning to apologize, but now that you have, I feel like maybe I did something wrong.  I’m sorry if I was inappropriate.  I never mean to be, but I make people uncomfortable, I know I do, I always have.”  He looks so upset with himself.

So Doc reaches across the table and squeezes Donut’s hand, says, “I’m not sorry if you’re not sorry.”

They spend the rest of the day grinding wheat and spelt into flour.  By the time they make it to bed, they’re too tired to do anything but settle against each other, Donut’s leg tossed over Doc’s and his head on his shoulder and his arm curled sweetly possessive around his chest.

*

Some days they just talk, sipping cold mint tea on the warm ground.

Donut tells Doc about the farm, how they focused more on the herd and less on crops and he’s learned a lot from Doc about growing things but he’d still like a few chickens someday if they ever get a shot at a supply ship.  Doc tells him that chicken poop makes great fertilizer, and the back of his mind buzzes with all the promise implied by the future tense.

When it’s Doc’s turn to talk about his childhood, he paints it in the broadest strokes possible but Donut still looks stricken.

“I’m fine,” Doc says, controlling his breathing and reminding himself to connect to the earth beneath his feet and the heavens over his head.

“I know you are,” Donut says, “but _how_?”

“The future is more important than the past, and the present’s more important than either,” Doc tells him.

“You’re a better person than I am,” Donut whispers.  Doc shakes his head and opens his mouth to speak, but Donut interrupts, “You might be at peace, but I just found out and I’m allowed to be angry that people hurt you.”

Doc nods his head, a simple gesture of respect, and says, “Anger is a very genuine emotion.”

Donut frowns and asks, “Do you want me to talk about the farm some more?” and Doc spends the day with the sun on his skin and his head in Donut’s lap, connected to the earth and his own spirit and his heart and to Donut, who isn’t exactly separate from the rest anymore.

*

Doc tries to hold Donut that night, extra warmth under their gathered blankets, but Donut is restless and tries a dozen different positions before he says, “Hey, Doc, is it okay if I kiss you again?”

“You’re allowed, you don’t have to ask every—”  But Donut is kissing him then, gentle but insistent, long and slow kisses that have a moan building in the back of Doc’s throat.

Donut’s hands are hesitant but warm, and Doc follows his lead, and it’s a beautiful, perfect moment.  Doc always believed sex could be a gateway to the divine, but he never experienced it before now, and when Donut presses his sweaty forehead against Doc’s and says, “Wow,” all Doc can do is nod his agreement and kiss him hard.

*

“My mom, I mean, one of my moms, she had this expression,” Donut is saying, and Doc forces his attention back to the moment, to the walnuts he’s chopping for banana bread, to Donut’s voice clear in the room.

“What expression?” Doc encourages, and Donut looks up from mashing overripe bananas to smile at him.

“She used to talk about couples, perfect couples, like her and my other mom, the kind of couples who don’t even need to talk to know they’re on the same page.”  Donut abandons his ingredients and pulls Doc away from his, so they’re standing hand-in-hand in the middle of the kitchen.  “She used to say that they’d _arrived_.  Because they’re each other’s destination, get it?”

Doc smiles, nods, says, “Yeah, I get it.”

“Good.”  Donut brushes a kiss over his lips, feather light, and turns back to the counter.  “And I guess, she never said this part, but if you’re each other’s destination, I guess that means you always find your way back eventually.”

Doc brushes the chopped walnuts into a pile in the middle of the cutting board and says, “There’s no reason to think we’ll get separated.”

“Oh, of course not,” Donut says, “but you know, just in case we do.  We don’t have to worry, because we’re meant to be together.”

Donut is so sure from his movies and his books and his idealism, it makes him believe what Doc already knows in his soul, and he says, “Right, we have nothing to worry about, because fate’s got this.”

“Exactly.”  Donut beams at him, sets the oven timer, and says, “Now come on, we have time for a power nap before we need to check on this again.”

Doc isn’t tired, but they lie close, fingers laced together, and Doc puts his head on Donut’s chest this time and listens to his heartbeat, steady and sure, in their quiet, safe home.


End file.
